Harlequin Moon

On clear nights, if you wish to toast to the man in the moon with a glass of fine wine, you will find no smile on his face. He laughs no more, barely conceals his tears beneath his chalk-white make-up. For him, pain and ecstasy were mere shadow puppets of a sense of happiness which took a long time dying. After the magic and mystery, love, like inspiration, hurried to the end. He wishes not that pain be his alone, no longer his sole possession. Each nerve of his that winces, he bequeaths to every one. the rest of his life now perches up there, turned harlequin. for all the world to see.